


Grief; Guilt; Standstill; Slumber.

by Eavenne



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Feels, Car Accidents, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Classical Music, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentions of Cancer, Teacher-Student Relationship, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eavenne/pseuds/Eavenne
Summary: When Francis happens across an injured young man on his way home, he tries to help.But Basch is already dead – only his ghost remains, bleeding from wounds that have long since run dry.





	Grief; Guilt; Standstill; Slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: A description of car crash injuries, some references to cancer, an implied shitty childhood.
> 
> Francis is France, Basch is Switzerland, Erika is Liechtenstein, Gilbert is Prussia, Ludwig is Germany, Roderich is Austria and Erzsébet is Hungary.
> 
> Also, the park mentioned in the fic does not really exist.

** 8 Days AFTER – 1/3 **

The storm engulfed him.

Rain thundered to the road like sleet – it pounded relentlessly at his bent back. Francis squinted despairingly at the swaying air before him, stumbled to the downed figure hunched over by the roadside, and tried to make his voice heard above the roar of the rain.

“Are you alright?” he yelled.

It was a stupid question. The storm’s world was a blurred haze of wobbly images – but even the ferocious rain couldn’t hide the left leg twisted in the wrong direction, or the crumpled mess of an arm, or the –

“Please,” croaked the young man.

Francis knelt, and saw the blood-soaked white shirtfront that even the rain couldn’t scrub clean.

“H-home.” The word was a sob. “Please – please, I – ”

But when Francis reached out to place a comforting hand on the one remaining shoulder, his fingers found only air.

He blinked. He frowned. He tried again – yet the rain wasn’t playing tricks on him, and when he tried to touch the young man before him there was nothing there.

“I – my sister. I have to go home, I – ” The lone voice struggled against the bellowing storm. _“Please.”_ A pale right eye rolled up to look desperately at Francis – the other was sealed shut by blood, blood that wept from a gaping wound on a discoloured forehead.

The vaguest flicker of recognition flashed dimly in Francis’ mind.

“Okay.” He reached out once more, to smooth the once-blond hair or cup a once-warm cheek, but the other man’s image only rippled like warm air. “I’ll bring you home. Can you get up?”

Another stupid question – once glance at that leg and Francis knew that he was asking the impossible. He tried to take that trembling hand once more. “I – I can’t touch you. I can’t help you up. Is there anything you can do, or – ”

The eye widened in confusion – then, with a visible effort, the young man’s body floated painfully into the air and bore itself into the backseat, unimpeded by the closed car door. Flinging his own door open then slamming it closed, Francis quickly buckled his seatbelt and turned the ignition.

And – mindful of the ghost slumped in his backseat – Francis stepped on the gas, and sped towards home.

 

**242 Days BEFORE**

Francis had always believed in ghosts.

Half an hour’s drive from his home, there was a park. It wasn’t a large park, nor was it particularly popular – but in its leftmost corner was a fairy’s ring of white magnolia trees that blossomed proudly to welcome each new summer.

Twenty summers ago, he’d met a woman under the magnolia trees. Her skin was whiter than the flowers above them; her eyes were lake-like, and her white gown smelt faintly of lilies.

She’d turned to him with a sad little smile, and gestured at the flowers with a delicate hand – and when he looked back, she was gone.

It was as though she’d simply faded into the fragrant air.

To liven up a dull lesson, Francis once told the story to his freshman class. No one believed him – Erika Zwingli, sitting in front, tilted her head and smiled in polite disbelief – but they found it fascinating anyway, so Francis supposed it hadn’t been a waste of class time.

And over half a year later, he’d meet Basch Zwingli under the ghostly magnolia trees.

 

**8 Days AFTER – 2/3**

The ghost didn’t say a word.

As Francis’ car sped towards Houston and the rain thinned to reveal the sun, the young man had slowly begun to heal – when Francis nudged the brakes on a red light and turned his head, an unmarred, faintly handsome face looked palely out at him from the backseat.

Francis’ gaze swept over the other man’s body – there wasn’t a trace of blood on him now. Yet his breathing was laboured (though breathing seemed unnecessary, since the man was dead) and his hands, tightly gripping his knees, were white-knuckled. He was probably still in pain.

“Hello,” said Francis. The ghost’s fingers tightened on his knees, and Francis watched as the other man’s eyes – two of them now, and a deeper colour than before – narrowed in nervous suspicion.

“Are you Basch Zwingli?” asked Francis, already knowing the answer.

The ghost nodded, his gaze distant – then he squeezed his eyes shut, took a shuddering breath, opened them wide to look searchingly at Francis and asked, “Am I dead?”

Francis sighed.

“I think you are.”

Basch’s head fell into his hands.

The light turned green – and Francis drove on in silence.

 

**3 Days BEFORE**

Francis loved being a high school English teacher.

There was nothing quite like the enthusiasm of engaged students; nothing quite like the smile on a young face, or the careless laughter of a scatter of friends. He had a freshman class that year that was particularly fond of him – it felt good to be liked, to be appreciated for his hard work and effort.

He listened as Erika spoke of the charity fundraising concert she’d been practising for – “and I’ll be performing with my brother’s friend, the famous pianist Roderich Edelstein, and my brother will come back from college to see us!” – and thought that it was such a wonderful thing for someone so young to be so passionate.

It was such a wonderful thing to be young and carefree.

 

**8 Days AFTER – 3/3**

Basch didn’t go home, in the end.

When Francis offered to drive him there, he’d simply shaken his head and looked out of the window to gaze gloomily at the scenery flashing by.

So Francis pulled into his own driveway. When his Spaniard neighbour walked over to say good morning and didn’t greet the ghost beside him, Francis realised that Basch was invisible to everyone but him.

Few people truly believed in ghosts, nowadays – the new millennium had heralded a wave of hard scepticism that few had escaped. It was simpler to not believe; and mankind had always preferred the easy route.

If Erika’s reaction to Francis’ experience under the magnolia trees was any indication, she was probably a non-believer. It wouldn’t surprise him if one had to believe in ghosts in order to see them: and thus, people who didn’t believe in ghosts would live in a world without ghosts, and people who did believe in ghosts would live in a world with them. Perhaps ghosts simply didn't exist for such people; perhaps it was all a supernatural placebo effect, though Francis was fairly certain that he was not hallucinating.

And perhaps that was why Basch didn't want to go home anymore – he’d be invisible, even to his beloved sister.

 

**3 Days AFTER**

Everyone who taught Erika knew about it.

She’d always liked to sit in front and diligently take notes – yet on Monday and Tuesday, her seat was conspicuously vacant. Francis glanced at it every so often and felt his own heart break for her.

It was a terrible thing, to lose a sibling.

When Erika finally returned the next day, she barely said a word. Her eyes were silent; her thoughts lingered miles away, standing vigil by her brother’s graveside.

She didn’t cry – and yet she seemed to shatter with every movement.

 

**12 Days AFTER**

Francis watched, and observed.

A few questions later, the issue of how he’d managed to drive an incorporeal ghost around in his car resolved itself. Basch hadn’t truly been sitting down, and the only reason why he hadn’t simply phased through the car was that his mind, still accustomed to worldly things, had instinctively corrected for Basch’s new intangibility and ensured that he stayed in the backseat.

Wrapping his head around all of this was strange – and Francis found it awfully convenient, though he wasn’t complaining – but it was the only explanation that he was going to get, so he had no choice but to settle with it.

That aside, there was no denying that Basch was truly from another world. Much like how he’d mentally corrected for the car ride, Basch only went through the motion of breathing because it was a subconscious bodily function and he wasn’t familiar with not breathing – otherwise, he didn’t drink, or eat, or even sleep. Well, it probably wasn't that he didn’t want to; no, it was far more likely that Basch was physically unable to do such things.

Of course, the physiology of ghosts was something that Francis probably wouldn’t ever comprehend – the idea of ghosts itself didn’t make any biological sense – but he couldn't help but think that it was particularly cruel that Basch could still feel pain.

The man himself didn’t speak much about the matter – he didn’t say much in general, really. On the first day, he’d stared quietly out of the living room window, watching the rain patter harmlessly on the cold glass: but every now and then, Basch would freeze as a fresh wave of pain slammed through his body. The young man tried to hide it, of course, but Francis knew better. One of his best friends had been through chemotherapy – and now Francis knew what people looked like when they were trying to conceal their own suffering.

Yet on the fourth night, he realised that Basch’s situation was worse than he’d imagined.

It was one of those nights where Francis woke up at 3am, blinked blearily at his bedroom ceiling, and decided to go for a late-night snack run. He stumbled to his bedroom door, walked yawning to the kitchen, and headed obliviously to the living room with a bag of chips secure under one arm.

There Francis found Basch, curled up and shaking in one corner of the living room with his forehead on his knees, clutching desperately at his left side even as his shirtfront grew dark with old blood.

And there was no way for Francis to help him – no way to make the pain go away, or to promise that everything would get better. All he could do was sit down by the dead young man’s side and talk, and see if words could distract Basch from the agony of his own death.

Francis doubted that he was particularly successful.

But he did it again and again, night after night, as the seconds ticked by and they crept towards the exact moment of the poor boy’s death, wavered there for a heartbeat, and inched slowly away. The newspaper claimed it had happened at 3am; Francis found that the worst of the injuries tore themselves open at 3:15, and that Basch’s body wouldn’t knit itself back together till 3:35.

So Francis read ‘ _The Great Gatsby_ ’ aloud to the young man. It wasn’t a particularly uplifting book, though undoubtedly well written – but they were doing it in Erika’s class once the summer break ended, and perhaps Basch would appreciate the connection with his sister.

And that became their routine.

 

**The Day Of – 1/2**

It’d been in the papers that morning.

People died every day, of course. When Francis flipped through the papers, tragedy after tragedy wandered into his view, whispering unfamiliar names in bold print. There – another page, another story, another person who would never speak again.

If not for the name ‘Zwingli’, he wouldn’t even have read the article.

It wasn’t a common name, not by any stretch of the imagination. His student, Erika Zwingli, was the only person he’d ever met with that last name – he’d looked it up upon seeing it on the class list, and read about a priest in 16th century Switzerland who’d led the Reformation.

Well, there was Erika’s brother as well. Francis had met him, once.

He was dead before they pulled him from his car.

 

**15 Days AFTER**

Slowly but surely, Basch began to open up.

It happened over breakfast. Instead of answering Francis’ questions in monosyllables as usual, Basch frowned in response to a comment about the book they were reading and said, “I don’t like it.”

This was new. Francis put down his mug of coffee. “And why is that, young man?”

“The rich are idle, immoral and money-wasting.” Basch frowned. “And practically everyone in the novel is rich.”

Well, he certainly wasn’t wrong. “That’s the point,” said Francis, leaning forward. “You see? That’s what Fitzgerald was trying to convey.” He shrugged. “Well, if you don’t like it, I could always read something else.”

 _“No.”_ The word seemed to fly from Basch’s mouth – his eyes widened, as though he were surprised by his own reaction. He paused. “I mean – it’s alright. We’ve already started, and it’s – it’s alright, I guess. And – ” Something made Basch hesitate.

Francis patiently waited. As a teacher, he was used to such situations – besides, Basch wasn’t much older than a high school senior himself.

He’d died at only nineteen.

It was a sobering thought.

“Thank you,” said Basch finally. His eyes sought out Francis’ own. “I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for me.”

But before Francis could reply, Basch quietly continued: “And Erika loves this book.”

As he spoke, something seemed to shatter inside him.

And Francis could only smile gently, and assure the grieving brother that they’d continue with the same novel.

 

**6 Days AFTER**

It was a Friday evening, and Francis was about to leave to visit his friend in Dallas.

When he’d walk out of his house and get in his car, Francis would find that the trip was as boring as ever. The road would be the same, the number of cars would be the same, and he’d make the same old turns and look out at the same old scenery and wait impatiently as the six long hours dragged on like long shadows in the setting sun – then he’d finally reach his destination, where the food was good and the house was a warm second home.

He was almost out of the door when he remembered – that, six days ago, Erika’s brother had lost his life on that same old road which Francis had used so often.

Francis stilled.

A memory rose into his consciousness, unbidden – he let its events play before his mind, let words and images float before his eyes once more.

Then he locked his door, turned on his heel, marched to his desk and drew out a file.

In the beginning of the school year, when most of his sophomores were fresh faces and he’d wanted to learn more about them, Francis had given out an assignment. “Write about the person or thing you admire the most in this world,” he’d said. It was marginally more unique than asking about their hobbies, at any rate, though it still was fairly standard – and his students’ submissions always told him more about them.

His class had offered the usual variety of responses. About a quarter of them had given joke answers, while another quarter had written only one or two words. Most of the rest had submitted around five sentences; the remainder, five students or so, had written heartfelt essays.

Erika was one of those students.

The paper felt oddly thin between his fingers. Francis laid it on his desk, sat down, turned on his table lamp and read the essay once more; observed every looping _‘y’_ and neat _‘t’_ , and let the words of a fifteen-year-old sink into his mind.

_“...Our mother passed away when I was six, and I was heartbroken. Our father has always been distant, so my brother was the one comforting me, even through his own grief. He’s always been so strong. I don’t know how he does it…”_

_“…I was bullied in middle school. It got rather bad sometimes, and I hated it. Sometimes I’d come home in tears. When that happened, it was my brother who would pull me into a hug and comfort me. He was my anchor through those difficult years…”_

_“…Sometimes I feel as though I haven’t been any help to him at all. He’s hardworking and very capable, and everything he’s achieved he’s done by himself. I don’t think I’ve ever helped him the way he’s helped me. So, I’ve decided that I’m going to do my best to be the most amazing sibling ever (I’ve always tried to do so, but now it’s a conscious effort). I want to be there for him like how he’s been there for me. Honestly, it’s probably going to take years before I can pay him back, even halfway. It’ll have to wait till he comes back from college, though. So, to answer your question – my brother, Basch, is the person I admire the most in the world.”_

Francis gazed at the paper for a few moments more.

And if, when he drove to Dallas, a ghostly figure flashed past by the roadside to his right, Francis assumed it was a trick of the light and nothing else.

He didn’t stop his car.

 

**18 Days AFTER**

Late one night as Francis idly set multiple-choice questions, Basch spoke about his death.

It was dark at the time, and it was raining with a vengeance. He could barely see a thing – and he was going pretty fast, a little over the speed limit.

He hadn’t been sleeping well recently – Basch paused, and said quietly that he actually hadn’t slept the night before – because of something that happened in college. Just surviving the week had been a struggle, and the only reason why he’d stayed till Friday was that he didn’t want to miss classes. But he was sure that everyone was laughing at him – he was certain of it, and he hated them and he hated himself for being stupid enough to give them material to fuel their laughter.

Francis raised his head, then, waiting for Basch to elaborate; but the answer didn’t come. Instead Basch looked away to hide the memories that were surfacing painfully in his eyes and said, his voice brittle: “I had to leave. I couldn’t stay a second longer. And so I drove home. In the middle of a thunderstorm. At 1am in the morning.”

And he hadn’t come home.

What happened afterwards was his fault. It was something that Basch was unfailingly consistent about – he was to blame for his own death, for he should’ve known better than to drive when he was so tired, and he should’ve calmed down and let the weather clear up, and he should’ve waited till morning before leaving. It was what he was supposed to do in the first place; Erika’s charity concert began at night, and he was only expected back home in the late afternoon.

But he hadn’t done any of those things – and now it was too late, even for regret.

And though Basch had thought about it again and again and laboured to recall just how he’d died if only to punish himself, he didn’t remember the swerve, or the tree, or the crash.

“What I… _do_ remember,” said Basch, staring at the floor, his voice hard and dry, “…is waking up. Afterward.”

He thought he knew what pain was like. He’d done sports throughout his school life, and he’d suffered numerous injuries, and – there was something else, but Basch hesitated and didn’t continue the thought.

This pain wasn’t like anything he’d ever known.

It was hell. It was agony. It was being paralysed and immobilised and tearing his throat to shreds screaming but not making a sound.

When the ambulance came and people surrounded him, he’d thought he’d been saved.

But they took his body away on a stretcher, and left his injured ghost to cry out desperately for someone to please help him, to bring him home, to take him to his sister – and watch, horrified, as they turned and drove away, disappearing into the distant darkness from whence they came.

And the pain stayed with him, and so did the car-crash injuries that had cost him his life. They stayed with him, ripping his body to pieces and driving him to despair and dragging him from unconsciousness and prying his eyelids open so he couldn’t even escape through sleep –

It went on for eight days – eight long days. No one stopped their car, for Basch was dead. He was no longer of this world, and its inhabitants didn’t know that he was still there.

“And if not for you,” said Basch, raising his eyes to meet Francis’ own, “I might still be trapped there. Haunting the spot of my death.

Waiting for an end that would never come.”

 

**The Day Of – 2/2**

Erika didn’t perform at the charity concert, that night.

Neither did the famous pianist she’d been talking so excitedly about. The two of them – one the little sister, and the other the childhood best friend – were somewhere else, close but miles away, drawn tightly together to grieve the loss of their common loved one.

But the show had to go on – it was the pianist’s fiancée, the violinist Erzsébet Héderváry, who performed for them that night. She’d called in a favour; Francis watched with surprise as his friend Gilbert brandished a flute and dazzled the audience. It was a small world after all.

The man found Francis at the merchandise stall. “Dude, I didn’t expect to see you so soon!” he said, clapping a hand on Francis’ back. “You’re still driving up to visit us next week, right?”

Francis tried to smile. “Yeah.” Slipping the banknotes into his wallet, he started back to his car, followed by Gilbert. “How do you know the violinist?”

“Don’t you remember? She was my high school girlfriend. Anyway, she texted me early this morning asking if I could help with a performance – that’s why I’m here!” Something wild flashed in Gilbert’s eyes – it was silenced by the grin on his face. “I thought your memory was better than this! You’re getting old, Francis. Maybe teaching isn’t for you. Lud can find you a new job – won’t you, little bro?”

The vaguely irritated face of Gilbert’s brother, Ludwig, glared out at them from the parking lot. As they approached, a lecture began about how irresponsible Gilbert was, and how Ludwig’s plans had been ruined by this completely random decision to drive drown to Houston and perform for a crowd – yet Francis was barely listening. If Gilbert’s cancer had killed him, he’d be like Basch Zwingli – and then Ludwig and Francis would be like the two who were supposed to perform that night, mourning a life that had been snuffed out before its time –

“Hey.” Gilbert’s voice snapped Francis out of his reverie. “Something wrong? You’re acting weird today.”

He told them.

They went quiet for a while. Something changed in Ludwig’s expression – perhaps it was just Francis’ imagination, but the younger brother seemed to shift almost protectively closer to the elder – and he said, “I’m glad we came.”

Gilbert cocked his head. “I knew you’d come around!”

Then – “That poor dead boy. Wonder what he was thinking, driving at a time like that.”

Francis didn’t know how to reply.

 

**24 Days AFTER**

Basch still hadn’t visited his sister.

Though Francis didn’t have any insight into Basch’s private thoughts, it was painfully obvious that seeing Erika was all that he desired. Nothing Francis said would stop Basch from missing her; no length of time would make him forget his sister. It was why he’d driven home in such a terrible state of mind; Francis suspected that it was the reason why Basch’s spirit lingered on after death.

“I have to go home,” he’d cried when Francis had rescued him – but now, Basch dug his heels in and refused to chase this one lonely regret.

When Francis, for the third time since the other man’s arrival, suggested that he visit, Basch turned away with a hesitant frown.

“No.”

It was all that Francis could do to keep the frustrated noise sealed in his throat. “Please. You miss her dearly.”

Basch’s arms flew into a knot. _“No.”_ A half-hearted attempt to shake his head was interrupted by a deep sigh, and aborted altogether.

There’d been a long meeting that day, and now Basch seemed to be trying his best to remind Francis of the stubborn teenagers he dealt with on a daily basis – yet he took a breath, and calmed himself down. “I think it’s what’s keeping you here,” he said, struggling to inject an understanding note into his voice. “It’s why you can’t pass on. If you see Erika, maybe you can come to terms with – ”

Basch whipped around. “If you don’t want me here, just say it!” His eyes flashed in frightened anger. “I’m _sorry_ that you’ve had to put up with me for so long. I’ll just – ”

Francis glared at him. “That’s not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You don’t understand!” It was like a dam had burst – and suddenly Basch’s knuckles went white again as he struggled to shout above the pain that crashed through his body. “I can’t – I _can’t_ go back and see her, not like this, not like – and she can’t see me anyway, so what’s the point? She – she must hate me for this. For dying. And I – I didn’t want to die. There were so many things that I had to – I – ”

His anger seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had flooded in. Now there was only a pained helplessness in those eyes – “I was going to study hard. I was going to get a degree, and go back, and get a good job, and buy a place for myself and get her out of that goddamned house and away from – from our _fucking father_.” When the tears came, Basch turned his head to the side and hid half of his face with a trembling hand. “And then everything went wrong because – because I was an _idiot_ , and – and now she – ”

When Francis stepped forward, Basch only drew deeper into himself. “I can't go back,” he repeated, sinking to the floor. “I can’t go back. I just – ” A sob wrenched itself from his throat. “I just wish I wasn’t dead.”

Francis knelt by his side.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly.

The nineteen-year-old ghost buried his head in his hands, and cried.

 

**28 Days AFTER – 1/2**

He ran into Erika in a convenience store.

“Good morning, Mr Bonnefoy,” she said politely. A shadow of her old liveliness had crept back into her movements; time healed all wounds, and Erika had always been unusually resilient for her age.

“Good morning. How are you, Erika?” replied Francis.

She tilted her head. “I’m fine.” Yet there seemed to be something else that she wanted to say – a second passed, and then another, before Erika finally opened her mouth again. “I heard that you were at the…at the charity fundraiser concert,” she said, glancing away in discomfort.

Francis nodded kindly. “I was. It was lovely.”

She made an effort to smile. “I’m glad you liked it.” The thin notebook in her fingers was being twisted this way and that as Erika fidgeted nervously. “Well, um – we’re actually having another one, at the same place and the same time, in three days. This one’s free, though – we’ll be selling things, of course, and there will be donation tins going around. And the pianist I was talking about, Mr Roderich Edelstein, will be performing. And I will be too.”

“I see.” This was a surprise – and, perhaps, if Francis could convince Erika’s brother to accompany him… “I’ll be sure to appear. And I’ll see if I can bring company.”

“Thank you!” Her face lit up, and her old cheerfulness flashed in her eyes – then suddenly her eyes fell to the ground and she continued quietly: “It’s…it’s dedicated to my brother’s memory. I think you’ve met him before, and – ” She took a sharp breath, blinked hard, and looked up at Francis again. “I think I should go now. Thank you so much.”

He watched her leave.

There was no way that Francis was going to let Basch miss this.

 

**28 Days AFTER – 2/2**

Francis told Basch everything when he returned home.

The other man didn’t reply. His eyes were distant, his thoughts miles away – and Francis had several lessons to plan, so he retired to his desk and let Basch sort out his thoughts in peace.

He went to bed early that night, as was his new routine, and woke up to his alarm at 2:45am the next morning to read to Basch as usual. No matter how many times Francis walked into his living room in the forbidding darkness, no matter how many times his eyes slid over each new injury as they forced themselves open once more, no matter how many times he had no choice but to ignore a cry of pain and read on, Francis could never get used to it.

Not even the most unrepentant sinner deserved to be tortured like this.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” he read. And that was ‘ _The Great Gatsby_ ’ – a tale of hopeless dreams, and carelessness, and a romantic imagination – it was a fairly short book, so Francis wasn’t particularly surprised that it hadn’t lasted a month.

He glanced at the clock ticking away on his wall. 3:10am.

It was still far too early.

“I’ll get something else,” he said. Various titles swam into his mind. Maybe he should read something more modern, like ‘ _Kafka by the Shore_ ’; no, it was a little too surreal for most people. Perhaps ‘ _Pride and Prejudice_ ’ – but then, Basch might not be interested in a romance; maybe Orwell’s ‘ _1984_ ’ –

“It’s – alright,” said Basch weakly, and Francis looked back at him in concern. “Thank you. You’ve – done enough.”

Francis placed the book on the floor. Before he could ask if Basch wanted to talk about anything, the man whispered, “I – I deserve it, anyway.”

“What are you talking ab – ”

 _“This.”_ Basch raised his head miserably to meet Francis’ eyes. “All of this.” He waved his uninjured hand stiffly in the air. “T – this is my punishment.”

Francis closed the distance between them. “You’re wrong,” he said.

“Am I?” Basch let his head fall to his knees. “I was always – always told that I was – that I was wrong. That I – that I was a mistake. I was always so – _angry._ I wanted to – ” His voice, harsh and scratchy, broke off for a moment as the pain commanded his attention. “To – to prove myself. And I was going to – to do it. To succeed. Everything was in place. But I – I failed.” Basch took a sharp breath. “Then when – everything went wrong, I tried to – to run away from my mistakes. To go home to – Erika. And I died.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I should’ve – should’ve known better. And now I’m being punished for it.”

“No,” said Francis gently. “No one’s punishing you, Basch. You’re punishing yourself.”

Silence fell heavily in the room.

Basch raised his head once more. “…What?”

“You’re punishing yourself,” said Francis gently. He shifted where he sat, trying to make himself comfortable. “Or, rather – your own mind is punishing you. Everything you’ve said points to it. You blame yourself for whatever happened in college. You blame yourself for your own death. You once said that Erika must hate you – that’s not true. The only person who hates you is _you,_ Basch.”

Basch laughed – it was a hollow, broken sound. “Plenty of people hate me.”

“Nevertheless,” insisted Francis, “You’re punishing yourself. You’re stopping yourself from passing on – ”

“So this _is_ my fault, isn’t it? I can’t even – can’t even fucking _die_ properly – ”

_“Please listen to me.”_

Basch looked at Francis then. There was a strained expression on his face, telling of the pain that leapt through his body; there was a desperate helplessness in his eyes, telling of the struggle in his mind.

And Francis was once again reminded of the fact that Basch was only nineteen.

He was barely even an adult.

“Come with me on Saturday,” said Francis softly. “Please. Free yourself. If you don’t love yourself enough to help yourself, do it for Erika – it’s what she’d want.”

And he watched as Basch looked away, hesitated, took a breath, looked back at him, and then, finally –

“Okay.”

 

**30 Days AFTER – 1/5**

When Francis left the house that night, Basch came with him.

As they navigated the crowded concert venue – an open-air stage with rows of chairs set out before it – Francis could hardly bear to look at the ghost floating by his side. People walked through Basch with the casual apathy of displacing air; to the living world he was ashes and dust, dead and gone. He did not belong there. He should not be there, but there he was, trapped in his own personal hell, labouring under his own imagined sins.

Basch ignored all of it. Yet his gaze darkened whenever someone walked through him – to feel so inconsequential, to feel so alone in a crowd had to hurt him deeply, though he didn’t show it. It was a feeling that Francis understood. It was a feeling that Francis hated being reminded of.

There was little that he could do when Gilbert spotted him. When the other man brought up Basch’s death in passing, Francis tried to steer the conversation away; when Gilbert rambled on about the programme and the changes they’d made from the previous one, Francis made excuses and hurried off.

“Sorry about that,” he whispered under his breath. “He’s my best friend, so I couldn’t just leave him.”

The ghost beside him grunted, but didn’t reply; his gaze was distant, his thoughts miles away.

In the end, they saw neither Erika nor Roderich Edelstein before the concert began, and were left to settle down in black plastic chairs in the third row by the centre aisle. As the seats filled, it grew harder for Francis to justify the seemingly empty chair beside him; when his Spaniard neighbour casually sat down with his Italian boyfriend, Francis couldn’t very well turn them away.

And silently, Basch floated away to linger, unseen, in the centre aisle.

 

**30 Days AFTER – 2/5**

In front of the grand piano was a single microphone stand.

When Erika walked onstage, the crowd barely seemed to notice. She tapped the microphone twice, stooped slightly to lower the stand, and tapped the microphone again – only then did the crowd turn its eyes to her, and fall silent.

“Hello,” she said. There was an odd quality to her voice, as though she were testing it just to make sure it still worked; the little black dress she was wearing made her figure seem even slighter than usual. “Welcome to the 23rd Concert for Kindness held here in Houston. Thank you for coming. Our sponsors are…”

As Erika read from a card in her hand, Francis turned to look at her brother. Basch was staring at his sister as though he could barely believe that she was there. A torn longing struggled in his eyes; he stood completely still, as though the slightest movement might make her vanish from his sight.

“Merchandise stalls can be found behind you, on the left and the right. All proceeds will go to the charitable organisations listed on the programme booklet.” Erika paused, and seemed to hesitate; then she continued, “I would also like to apologise for the sudden change in performers last month. What happened was that – ”

She froze. Her eyes roamed through the audience, pleading, searching for something – Francis heard someone take a sharp breath beside him, and turned to see Basch float forward with a worried frown on his face – then the moment was over, and Erika opened her mouth once more.

“What happened was that my – my brother passed away unexpectedly early that morning.” The words that Erika didn’t choke on were spoken rapidly; she continued quickly, as though lingering on any word was too much for her to bear. “He meant a lot to me. He meant a lot to _us_. We loved him very much, and we – we couldn’t perform after we heard – ” A suppressed sob escaped her throat as a gasp. Erika looked to the side desperately, seeking reassurance from someone offstage; a few seconds later she took a breath, collected herself, and went on.

“That’s why we were absent. I would like to extend my deepest thanks to Miss Erzsébet Héderváry and Mr Gilbert Beilschmidt, who replaced us on short notice. Please give them a round of applause.” A roar of applause filled the air. It was as much for the two replacements as it was for Erika herself – a show of support for the girl who had lost her brother.

Erika seemed to gain confidence from the audience’s response. “Mr Roderich Edelstein and I agreed to dedicate this concert to my brother’s memory. Tomorrow will be the anniversary of his death, and – ” Something seemed to overcome her then; Francis watched as she took a shaky breath, struggled to smile, and continued, “Brother, if you’re out there, please listen to us. You missed the last concert, so this one is for you.”

There were tears glistening in Basch’s eyes.

With a movement of her hand, Erika wiped her own away. “I miss you every day.” A deep ache throbbed in her voice. “I love you so much. I just wish I’d said it more, when you were here to hear it.”

They seemed to gaze at each other for a moment – brother and sister, the dead and the living. For a few trembling seconds, Francis wondered if, perhaps, Erika could see –

She looked away just as Basch whispered, “I love you too.”

 

**30 Days AFTER – 3/5**

By the intermission, Francis himself was in tears.

There was no doubt that Roderich was a truly skilled pianist, and that Erika’s cello was beautifully expressive. Her high notes wept, while her lower register growled stormily.

Most of the pieces were solemn and melancholic. They were searching, yearning for something that had already crumbled to dust, but if they stretched their arms out further, if they raised their voices to call out a name –

The music struck something deep in Francis; a part of him that had loved and lost, that longed for something greater. A face from his youth swam before his mind – a pair of brilliantly green eyes, a flushed face, a sharp, mocking laugh – but the memory was extinguished as quickly as it was lit, blown out by the thunder of applause and the winds of time.

Basch was silent.

His eyes were lost, wandering somewhere miles away; and so Francis didn’t disturb him, and flipped through the programme booklet once more.

They waited for the intermission to end.

 

**30 Days AFTER – 4/5**

The rest of the concert was slightly less subdued.

Where Roderich had performed Ravel’s elegiac _“Pavane for a Dead Princess”_ , he now played Chopin’s turbulent _“Revolutionary Etude”_ ; Erika’s grieving _“Vocalise”_ by Rachmaninoff became Bach’s elegant Cello Suite 1 _“Prelude”_ ; Beethoven’s _“Moonlight Sonata”_ transformed from the sorrowful first movement to the delicate second one to the furious third; and, finally, the concert ended with Satie’s cloud-like _“Gymnopédie 1”._

The stadium shook with applause. Suddenly Francis lost sight of the stage as the people in front of him stood up, and soon the entire audience was giving a standing ovation. When one person yelled, _“Encore!”_ the call was taken up by everyone; _“Encore! Encore! Encore!”_ the audience chanted, and Francis turned to look at Basch –

For the first time, there was a smile on Basch’s face.

The applause grew louder, scattered a little, and then roared back to life when Roderich reappeared on stage. He walked to the microphone, and bowed; then he raised his arm to the sky, as though he was gesturing at something –

“The last time I met Basch,” he said softly, “…the moon was brighter than this.”

The stadium was silenced in an instant. People frowned, looked up, craned their necks to see it – the moon, shining like a pearl embedded in black velvet, alone in the dusky darkness.

Basch’s eyes widened. The silver moonlight gently illuminated his ghostly, silent silhouette.

“I was asking him to be my best man,” said Roderich, and suddenly his face contorted with pain as the memory of Basch’s voice filled his ears. “He agreed. As thanks I performed a piece for him, but he had to go before I could finish.” He adjusted his glasses with a shaky hand, and took a shuddering breath. “I was going to play it for him at the wedding, but – _he can’t make it now.”_

The stadium was deathly silent. Roderich gazed at the moon; his fingers flexed, as though he was fighting to stop himself from reaching out for someone who was already gone, for someone whose eyes danced in his memories but would never look at him again –

“For him – for _all_ of you – I will play this piece now. It’s a beautiful piece, and it’s very dear to me. I hope you enjoy it. And, Basch – ” The name was familiar, even fond on Roderich’s tongue – “I hope that you’re happy. And know that you’ll always be my friend, wherever you are, even though you’re not here anymore. I – I’ll never forget you. Thank you for everything.” He dropped his gaze, almost seemed to meet Basch’s eyes, and then –

“Thank you for being my friend.”

And when the first few notes of Debussy’s _“Clair de Lune”_ rippled gently through the stadium, Francis looked to his left.

There were bright tears in Basch’s eyes.

And the silent, mournful moonlight grieved for them all.

 

**30 Days AFTER – 5/5**

They didn’t talk about the concert.

Instead they talked about everything else. The night grew colder and the clock ticked on mercilessly on the wall but Basch seemed compelled to tell Francis everything. He spoke rapidly about his childhood, about his mother, about his father; about Erika, who’d kept him sane after his mother’s death; about Roderich, who’d always been there for him when he needed it; about his dreams, now forever unachievable; about the people he loved, now forever out of his reach.

There were a hundred things that he needed to confess – then a hundred more, and thousands, and a million stray thoughts that he now struggled to put into words. Haltingly, he told Francis why he’d left college, about the drinking that led to a one-night-stand that led to pictures of him being circulated around campus, about the daily harassment that kept him awake at night and eventually led to his death. He told Francis about how he fell in love with Roderich, and tried to ignore his feelings, and hid from everyone, and eventually found the strength to move on.

The number of things that Basch couldn’t forgive himself for were countless; his regrets were boundless, his grief endless. At the end of it he looked up, startled, and said that he’d never talked this much in his life – to give him a break, Francis found Erika’s old essay, and read it aloud.

“My brother is the person I admire most in the world,” he said.

Basch smiled, and said that he loved her too.

 

**31 Days AFTER**

They talked early into the next morning.

As the time of Basch’s death approached, he grew quieter, and spoke more slowly – when Francis asked if he was alright, he nodded.

“I’m a little…tired,” he said, softly. “Don’t worry about me. Just go to bed. I’ll be fine, I think.”

Francis smiled. “Are you sure?” he said – but there was no suppressed agony in Basch’s eyes, no trembling fists that he was struggling to hide. Instead there was a heaviness, and a certain sighing resignation; and Basch said, “I’m sure. Don't worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Francis, getting up from the couch. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

But before he could step into the bedroom, Basch said, “Wait,” and Francis turned around.

Silently, the ghost glided to his side. They gazed at each other for a moment. Francis took in the blond hair, the firm jaw, the piercing gaze –

“Thank you,” said Basch. “Thank you for everything.”

A smile had crept soundlessly onto his lips once more. It brought his face to life, softened his sharp features, rounded his harsh edges – it created something beautiful. Something that Francis would never forget.

“You’re welcome,” said Francis, smiling as well. “And you’ll always be welcome here. Thank you for keeping me company.”

The ghost nodded. “Goodnight, Francis.”

“Goodnight, Basch.”

And when Francis stumbled out of the bedroom six hours later, Basch was already gone.

It was as though the darkness had lulled him to sleep – and, lovingly, rocked him gently to eternal rest.

 

**31 Days BEFORE**

He met a young man under the fragrant magnolia trees.

It was Francis’ favourite spot in the park – the park that was a half-hour’s drive from his home. It wasn’t a large park, nor was it particularly popular; and the circle of magnolia trees was rather out of the way, so it was surprising that another person had arrived to admire the view.

“Hello,” he said as he approached. The dew-sprinkled flowers glistened above them, sparkling like diamonds under the cool morning sun; the young man under the flower-laid branches turned his head, and nodded wordlessly at Francis.

Francis raised a hand to gesture at the flowers above them. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

The young man eyed him warily, and grunted in reply.

He certainly didn’t seem like the conversational sort; but Francis was in a good mood that day, and it didn’t hurt to try. “My name is Francis Bonnefoy,” he said, “…and I’m a high school English teacher.”

Something shifted in the other man’s expression – a flicker of recognition, perhaps – and he asked, “Do you teach someone named Erika Zwingli?”

This was a surprise. “Yes,” said Francis. Now that he looked closer, the young man did resemble her somewhat, at least face-wise; their eyes were the same colour and so was their hair, and perhaps their noses –

“I’m her brother,” said the young man, and it all became clear.

So this was the person whom Erika admired most in the world. The elder Zwingli didn’t seem to loom quite as large as he had in that essay – if anything, he was shorter than most men, had narrower shoulders than most men, and had a more boyish voice than most men – yet there was an alertness in his eyes, a sharpness to his features, that made him oddly striking. If anything, he was fairly handsome.

“I see,” said Francis, taking a step closer. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr…”

“Zwingli,” said the other man, a little confused – then he realised what Francis was asking, flushed slightly in embarrassment, and said, “Basch Zwingli.”

“Well, what brings you here, Basch?” asked Francis – perhaps it was too casual for someone as seemingly uptight as the young man before him, but it was Francis’ habit to address most people by their first names. “This spot isn’t visited often, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen someone stop to admire the magnolias.”

Basch shifted where he stood. “I’m actually here because of you,” he said slowly.

“Oh?”

“Erika mentioned your ghost story over dinner,” he said. “I happened to be nearby today, and I hadn’t come to this park before, so I decided to drop by.” He paused. “I’m glad I did. The flowers are beautiful.”

They gazed up together at the magnolias for a moment. The scent of the flowers rested heavily on the rain-soaked air, perfuming the sky with an almost dizzying fragrance; the magnolias gazed back at them, angling their blossoms for their captive audience.

“So, do you believe my story?” asked Francis. If Basch was anything like his sister, Francis sincerely doubted it – yet it was worth a try, regardless.

Basch shook his head. “No. But it _is_ a good story.”

“Well, I’m happy that you’ll give me that, at least,” said Francis, tilting his head. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I’m fairly certain that I wasn’t hallucinating – it’s something that you have to see to believe. And perhaps you have to believe in it to see it in the first place.” Francis shrugged. “How old are you?”

The question seemed to annoy Basch a little, for he frowned. “Nineteen.”

“You’re going to college?” Francis already knew, though he wasn’t sure if Basch was aware of Erika’s essay.

“Yes, in Dallas. I’m majoring in Economics.”

How unlike his sister – Erika, for her part, excelled at languages and seemed to dislike Maths. “That’s good – but isn’t it a six-hour drive? What did you come back for?”

“My friend is getting married, and I’m helping with the preparations.” There was something guarded about Basch – perhaps it was the piercing look in his eyes, or the tension in his shoulders.

Francis smiled. “You have a very unique surname. Are you from Switzerland?”

“Yes – but it’s rare, even there.” Basch paused, as though he were thinking something over – then he continued, “I was born in Zürich, but my family moved a year afterwards, and Erika was born here.”

But before Francis could reply – “I think I should go,” said Basch quickly, “Erika will be wondering where I am.”

They shook hands. Francis found that Basch gave a firm, satisfying handshake – despite his slight figure, he was surprisingly strong. “Goodbye,” said Basch.

Francis nodded. “Goodbye.”

And Basch left – leaving Francis, a little lonely now, to admire the white flowers by himself.

He looked up.

“Perhaps I’ll see him again,” he said softly.

The ghostly magnolia trees sighed in the wind, and made no reply.


End file.
